


When Our Light Falls

by ofwickedlight



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Abuse, Aerys Is His Own Warning, Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Character Study, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gift Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Miscarriage, POV Rhaella Targaryen, Pre-A Game of Thrones, Pre-Canon, Psychological Trauma, Stillbirth, asoiafrarepairs Secret Santa, bookverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 11:06:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17140637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofwickedlight/pseuds/ofwickedlight
Summary: I'll always protect you, Ellie.He had sworn it to her, when he was the prince. But kings never keep their promises, and it was always their queens who suffered for it.In which the years go by, and Aerys descends into something Rhaella does not recognize.





	When Our Light Falls

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chillyravenart](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=chillyravenart).



> Written for the ASOIAF Rarepair Secret Santa as a gift to [chillyravenart,](https://chillyravenart.tumblr.com/) an extremely talented artist on Tumblr. Here’s my ridiculously long gift for you, dear. I hope you like it! <3

* * *

 

Mist.

That was what she felt when she dreamed of the Stormlands — mist, and wet, and green. The moist air was faint kisses on her skin, cool wisps of breath that danced over her in laughing gusts as she ran, and the earth’s twisted vines pricked at her skirts with each step. _Like dragon claws,_ Ery had said, to make her giggle.

Ery.

He should be just behind her now. Him, and Cousin Steffon. Chasing. Seeking. Not seeking to hurt, though. Only to laugh. Only to play, and love.

So Ellie ran. She ran like a bird, a free bird who flew just because she could, not because she had to, needed to. A bird with a song in her heart. And her heart was a smiling flutter when she hid beneath a pile of leaves, under a cradling glade, under a loving, grey, rainy sky. The sky cried all the time in the Stormlands, but not in sorrow. Always to give life. Always to breathe.

Ellie could barely breathe when she heard the crunching of her brother and cousin’s feet against the leaves. If she breathed, she would laugh, and they’d find her. Part of her always wished they would find her, though. Finding was almost as fun as hiding. Finding brought tickles and teasing and more laughter. Finding brought Ery back to her.

“Where did she go?” asked Steffon.

Ery hummed. “I could have sworn I saw her run this way.”

Ellie bit her smiling lips. The leaves rustled as she suppressed a giggle.

Silence.

Steffon sighed. “Well, Cousin, I suppose we should leave. She’s obviously evaded us.”

Ery sighed, too. “Yes,” he said, “But first, perhaps a rest?”

“Of course,” said Steffon. He sat on her pile of leaves, right on top of her legs. Ellie froze.

Steffon shifted his bottom over her legs. “This pile of leaves is quite hard, wouldn’t you say?”

“Let me see,” said Ery. He plopped right over Ellie’s tummy.

“Oof!” It escaped her before she could catch it, but hopefully they hadn’t heard her?

“Did you hear that, Cousin?” asked Steffon.

Ery sat up.

“The leaves spoke.”

“Is it alive?”

Ery placed his long fingers over Ellie’s sides, poked the leaves that covered her. Ticklish skitters ran through her, and she bit her lip harder.

“Did you see that? It moved.”

“Well,” said Steffon, “A Stormlord couldn’t possibly tolerate a monster roaming his lands.”

Ellie’s eyes widened. She tried to move, but Steffon was still on her legs.

“Neither could a crown prince,” said Ery.

 _Neither could a princess,_ Ellie wanted to say, but then she remembered that they were talking about _her_ , and she was no monster. And princesses didn’t fight — their brothers did that for them. Ery had told her that.

As if he'd heard her thoughts, Ery drew closer - she could see the silver gleam of his hair shining through the sliver of her hiding place. Then, “Attack!”, and the leaves revealed her. Steffon and Ery crowded her, and she was plucked, picked, bombarded with tickles and pinches, and oh, she had lost again.

“Brother, Cousin,” she giggled through her scream-laugh, “Stop!”

They stopped, but didn’t let her go. “Oh, I fear we were mistaken, Cousin,” said Steffon.

Ery smirked as he eyed Ellie. “Yes,” he said. “’Tis no monster, only a dragon.”

Ellie blushed. She liked when her brother called her a dragon.

“It seems we’ve caught you, Sister,” said Ery.

Ellie raised her arms, reaching for him. He picked her up, repressed a grunt at her weight. He had three years on her, and was tall, skinny, but Ellie was still tiny enough for him to hold her… for now. Ellie wished she could stay small forever, so he could always hold her, but Mother said maidenhood was less than a handful of years away.

“What will we do now?” she asked them.

Steffon shrugged. “We don’t have long before your Kingsguard finds us,” he said. “Why not swim while we can?”

So they ventured toward the water, with Ellie on her brother’s shoulders. Steffon went on ahead, jumping over fallen branches and dashing through the trees.

Ellie pressed her nose on her brother’s ear. “Ery?” she asked. “Did you really think I was a monster?”

Ery looked back at her with a little frown. Then he laughed. Ellie loved her brother’s laugh. It was light and mischievous, and different from the one he used with outsiders. No, this laugh had only been for her. Pretty and playful, but kind. “Of course not,” he said. He set her down. “You’re the one I defend from monsters, remember?”

Ellie smiled at that, but she couldn’t shake her worry. “If I had been a monster though… you and Cousin had no weapons or armor. What if a monster finds you, and you can’t fight it because —”

Ery kissed her. Quick, but soft, like the brush of a feather.

“No monsters will find me, Sister,” he told her, “And even if one did, I would never let it hurt you. I’ll always protect you, Ellie.” He ran a long finger down her cheek, his lilac eyes staring into hers. They were such pretty eyes. Shining, more pink than purple. “Do you believe me?”

Ellie nodded and smiled, but there was no smile in her heart, not then. Not when a hot tinge burned in the back of her mind, an unease swelling through her throat. _I worry too much,_ she scolded herself.

Ery squeezed her ear and grinned at her. Ellie loved her brother’s grins. They were so charming, and pretty, and _easy_ , as if he could gift them to her as death and destruction reigned, as the world burned. Fearless. They made Ellie feel fearless, too, because when Ery smiled, everything would be all right, even if the world was burning.

Ery reached for her hand. His hand was just as long as the rest of him, a lean, pale body, lithe but strong. Ellie grasped it, her tiny palm brushing against his. Maybe her brother was right. Maybe he could fight the monster, should it arise, even if he had no protection. Maybe.

“Good,” he said, still smiling. His lilac eyes twinkled. “Now stop fretting like Grandmother and swim with us.”

Rhaella's smile was true now, as she looked into those eyes, and he led her to the lagoon. It was ethereal, dark, like a glade from the storybooks Grandfather would read to her when she was lonely. They splashed through the coolness, Sister and Brother and Cousin, swam and laughed and jumped, and the Stormlands were mist, mist and wet and green, and the water was dark, murky, murky like …

The wine in Ellie’s cup was sour, bitter, salty — or perhaps that was the stench of old tears, stale on her tongue.

Ery was bitter too. No, not bitter. Enraged. He sat beside her, clutching their chalice with lean, strong, gripping fingers, his neat nails digging into the silver. Around them, the music was merry, and lords and ladies danced before them, but their happiness had not blessed the royal table — well, save for Mother and Father, who, despite their children’s misery, were quite pleased. Not Grandmama, though. Or Grandpapa, despite the fact that he had allowed this. Had allowed it all. Had betrayed her, and Ery.

The rage was a dragon on her brain, biting. Ellie fought it. _I shouldn’t think of Grandpapa that way._ Still, the thoughts were there, lingering as she watched him stare into the crowd, evade the eyes of his children, and grandchildren. Rage was in his eyes too, when he looked at his son, Ellie noticed. Rage at Prince Jaehaerys, but guilt whenever Ellie caught his eye. But he was at the end of the table, far out of reach and heart, unlike Ery, who was next to her. Next to her, yet leagues away within his own mind, his full lips set into a tense pout, lilac eyes burning as he seethed in silence.

Ellie looked down at her food, away from his disdain. She wondered if it was truly so terrible to be married to her. She wondered if Ery hated her now. He had loved her when they were nothing more than brother and sister, but he had not wanted her as a wife; he wanted this girl and that girl, a servant here, a lady there, and, most of all, Joanna Lannister. Not Ellie, never Ellie. And Ellie didn’t want him as a husband, either. But it did not matter what they wanted, because that woods witch had spoken, and Father believed her. Believed that there was power in Ellie’s womb, and Ery’s seed. Believed that his grandchild would own the world in a way that Aegon and Rhaenys and Visenya had never dreamed, because he was Azor Ahai, the Prince that was Promised.

 _Brother will put the Prince inside of me tonight,_ Ellie knew. Mother had told her so, in the darkness of her bedchamber the night before, while Ellie tried not to choke on her tears. “It is a good thing,” Mother had said, softly, as if that would calm her daughter’s sobbing. “Who better to marry than someone you’ve known your entire life? Your brother, your closest friend? Who will protect you better than Aerys?” Somehow, that made Ellie cry harder. She knew Aerys would protect her. She knew. But she did not want to be with him as a wife must be with her husband. Mother and Father were siblings, and they loved each other, but she and Ery weren’t like them. She had told her Mother so, and all the softness that had been in Princess Shaera's voice died. “It matters not,” she had said. “The power of the Dragon lies above one single happiness, and the prophecy is in place. You and Aerys will make our House’s salvation, tomorrow night.” She stood, suddenly far away from Ellie, who sat there, silent and broken on her maiden's bed. “This is your duty, Rhaella. You will learn to heed it, and it will be done.”

And so it was to be done. The feast was over far too quickly, and though Ellie had barely eaten, vomit roiled and rose within her. There was no bedding; no one even dared to suggest it. But the walk to their chambers was silent and lonely, with Ery looking straight ahead, as sullen as she had ever seen him. He said nothing, so neither did Ellie. Instead, she watched her slippers pad against the stone floors, the vast windows that exposed her to the world, the tapestries on the walls. Then the vast double doors were before them, dark and foreboding. Ery opened them, waiting for her to enter.

Ellie crossed the threshold, eyes wide, throat dry. There was a silence behind her, a silence so loud it left her breathless. Her brother had never been so quiet, not ever, and certainly not around her. Around her, he was all silliness to make her laugh, kindness to soothe her. Now, though ...

 _He hates me,_ Ellie thought, but gods, it wasn’t her fault that the woods witch told Father the prophecy, or that Ellie wasn’t this girl, or that girl, or Joanna Lannister. She could only be Ellie. But Ellie was a silly princess of three-and-ten, a maid that had only recently crossed the lands of womanhood, and Ery was a man of six-and-ten who had known women, had been touched by them in ways Ellie knew nothing of. She could only be a good sister. Not a lover. She sat down on the bed, inspected all the engravings on the bedpost.

Ery let out a sigh, and Ellie heard the clatter of rings being taken off, put on the nightstand. Soft pouring of liquid soon followed it.

“Wine?” he asked, flatly.

Ellie shook her head, didn’t look at him. She pulled at her fingers, twisted at them, and cursed herself as soon as she did. She only did that when she was nervous, and Ery knew that.

Ery drew close then, wine abandoned. Ellie’s eyes bore into the bedpost.

“You can’t look at me now?” His voice was bitter and harsh.

Ellie winced, looked at his hands, not his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Ery’s stare burned through her for years. Then, another sigh. The mattress sank down with his weight, and his shoulder brushed against hers. “No, Ellie,” he said, soft now. “You’ve nothing to apologize for. It’s not your fault.”

“You’re not angry with me?” Her voice was small.

Ery glared at the wall, clutched the bed dressing. “No.”

Ellie pulled at her fingers. He was not angry with her, but he was still furious, and she couldn’t handle it. She could never handle it when he was like this. “Do you … do you hate me?” She had to know.

Ery looked at her then, and his eyes softened, just a bit. Ellie held his gaze, tummy flipping. His stare was intense, pink and sparkling, and she could say nothing. He wove his fingers through her hair, placed his palm on her face. He was warm, warm like dragon’s breath.

“Never,” he whispered fiercely, and Ellie believed him.

His thumb brushed her cheek, stroking, petting. Ellie leaned into his touch, closed her eyes.

“Do you fear me, Ellie?” His voice was husky, soothing.

Ellie remembered the fire in his lilac eyes, the way his clenched hands on the bed sheets looked like dragon’s claws. That wasn’t aimed at her, though. It was for the witch, and Father, and Grandfather. Not her. Never her. Even if she wasn’t this girl, or that girl. Even if she wasn’t Joanna.

“Never,” she said, and there it was again, that hot tinge, burning in her mind, like a herald. A warning.

 _I’m being silly._ Joanna always said she was silly, wondering about any and everything, dreaming up fantasies and nightmares that could never possibly come true. This was surely one of them, if she was being wary of her brother. _I’m only nervous because it’s my wedding night._ A chill went through her then. Gods, her wedding night. The night she would flow from maid to woman. But, it was Ery. Ery would never hurt her.

 _And he will never give me cause to fear him,_ she told herself, as his lips met hers. Not quick and feathery as they always had before, but slower, deeper, and even more gentle. _He loves me._ Not as a husband loves a wife, no. But maybe, as time fell further, as they grew old and watched their Promised Prince grow powerful, they would love each other as Mother and Father did, as Grandpapa and Grandmama did. Maybe.

The sheets caressed her in a silken embrace as her brother laid her down, laced his legs with hers. His touches were mere grazes, faint, as if she were precious glass he dared not shatter. Moonlight hazed over the bed, gleaming in his eyes and the stars beyond them, darkling, glooming, and the night sky was murky, murky like …

The smoke had faded from dark hellish clouds to grey, faintish wisps, floating, dazing, as if they were the last breaths of all who had fallen, trapped in the burning air for all time.

Her son paid the smoke no mind. He sat silently in her arms, soft and silver and beautiful, indigo eyes far too somber to belong to one only three hours old. _He mourns,_ she knew. She could not mourn, not now. Not while she was covered in soot and sweat, and her loins and belly and heart and soul ached and screamed in ways her mouth never could. Not as she stared into her son’s old, melancholy eyes, eyes she knew, eyes that had only looked at her with guilt while she had swelled with life as the months since her wedding night went by.

“He has Grandfather’s eyes,” said Ery. No. Aerys. Aerys, her husband. Aerys, father of her child. _Prince_ Aerys, first in line for the throne, now, because Grandfather was dead, ash in the wind, and their father was the new king. _The king is dead,_ she could hear Ser Gerold yell to the crowd of lords and ladies and commoners, whenever they returned to King’s Landing and announced the news. _Long live the king._ Her heart pulsed within her chest, slow and dull.

“He does,” she said. Never had her voice sounded so lifeless. So faint.

Aerys traced a long finger down their son’s silver head. “The Promised Prince.” His voice was just as lifeless, yet somehow, there was a trace of awe, bitterness, rage.

“Yes.” It took all that was left within her to speak. Gods, she was tired. Only four and ten, and she felt as old as Grandmother, and Grandfather. As old as they had been, before they burned alive. The Promised Prince, exactly as the witch foretold, yes. Born through smoke, fire, blood. All that remained was the salt. But it was coming. She could feel it brewing from within, rising, not only in her, but Aerys as well. Not yet, though. Not yet.

The silence went on for breaths, eons. She watched as Aerys petted and caressed his son, studied him. He leaned in as much as his chair would allow him, draped his arms on the sheets that covered her lap, rested his nose on their son’s forehead. He was breathing him in, she knew. Inhaling the only scent of life amongst all the misery and death. She had been tempted to do it herself, before Aerys came to see them, but she couldn’t. She must smell the death, the darkness, the decay. She had to feel their surroundings, their fate, their destiny. She had to see what Father and Grandfather had wrought.

Aerys brushed his lips against their son’s ear. “He shall be called Rhaegar.” He said it in a murmur, but there was power in his voice.

The strength returned to her then — just a bit. Rhaegar. Rhaegar. “For me?” Her voice was a pitched rasp, and her throat hurt from the screams she’d let out as she watched the flames roar and rise and glow, and the water streamed from her loins, and her womb twisted and tore from Rhaegar’s thrashing, and she struggled against Ser Barristan, who was pulling her further and further away from Grandpapa and Grandmama and Ser Duncan and Uncle Duncan. Still, she spoke now, even through the pain, because she needed to know. She needed to hear him say it.

Aerys met her eye. The lilac in his depths were hard and pained and loving all at once. “For you,” he said. “Should the Promised Prince not be named after she who birthed him?”

The salt rose further, but it wasn’t time yet. Almost. Her heart skipped a slow beat. _Thank you,_ she wanted to say, but she kept silent. The words weren’t strong enough, she knew. Nothing she could ever say could match the gift her brother had just given her. She stared into his gaze, hoped her eyes conveyed what she felt, nodded.

Aerys climbed into the bed, eyes falling back to their son. Rhaegar. He smiled, and it was the saddest thing she had ever seen. “Grandmother would have liked that,” he said, voice husky and defeated. “The son being named for the mother.” His eyes lit with fondness, and then the salt showed itself, soiled and swelled and surfaced, swallowed them both.

She didn’t feel her tears as much as she did Aerys’s. They streamed down his face in silence, pretty and shining in the candlelight. Newborn tears, younger to the world than even Rhaegar. She hadn’t seen him cry since they were children. _She_ was the one who cried, constantly, endlessly over trivial, childish things that meant everything to her then, but nothing since Father, and Grandfather, and the witch, and the fire, and the birth. And it was _he_ who would calm her, soothe her tears. Now, it was her turn.

One small arm unmade the cradle that had embraced the son, to wrap around the father. The brother. The husband, the future king.

Aerys held her and Rhaegar back, buried his nose in her neck. She rested her cheek on his head, stroked and caressed his hair, and he wept in truth, then, wept as quietly as the hissing, fiery air beyond her birthing bed, amidst the death and smoke. Smoke. Yes. There had always been smoke, and now, there was salt. The witch had been right. She had been right, and there was such an emptiness within the princess that she couldn’t even muster the courage to be vengeful. She could only conjure tears, add more salt to the smoke, make the witch truer and truer with each one that fell on her brother’s head.

She held her brother. She held him until his sobs fell to whimpers, til the whimpers faded to breaths, til the breaths died into silence. Then, slowly, like an old dying man, Aerys reached up to cradle her and their son, draping over them both. It had fallen to him to be the comforter, once again. His turn, always.

Aerys kissed her tears, then her nose, then her forehead. His dry eyes gazed into her drowning ones. “You’ve done well, Ellie,” he said.

A sob wrenched inside her throat — she trapped it before it could escape, let it ache within her, let it scream in the depths of her heart. “Rhaella,” she said, and it sounded nowhere near as strong as she meant it to. Rhaella was her name, a good, strong name, the name of a mother. A woman. A future queen. A dragon who’d birthed their savior in the midst of a firestorm. Not Ellie. Ellie was a child, a silly princess that knew nothing of betrayal and abandonment and death. She was not Ellie anymore. She had not been Ellie since the witch had spoken, but she had been in denial as Rhaegar grew within her. But just like Grandpapa and Grandmama and Ser Duncan and Uncle Duncan, the denial had become ash.

For half a breath, Aerys looked like he wanted to cry again, but the pain left his face as soon as it came. He gave her another broken smile. “Rhaella,” he said, and the name sounded far better on his tongue. He had only spoken it at court before, and only with a sense of bravado that only a prince addressing his subjects could give. Now, it was said like the feathery kisses he had once gifted her, when they were children. Now, it was an understanding, unspoken between them. Now, it was mourning and pride all at once.

“Rhaella,” he whispered again, as he held her close. “Yes.”

Rhaella pressed a cheek against Aerys’s chest, laid Rhaegar on the other side of him. Their son’s sleeping breath brushed against her face, and it was the sweetest scent she had ever known. Rhaegar, son of Rhaella. Named for Rhaella. Birthed by Rhaella, amidst salt and smoke. Rhaella, and Rhaegar.

Aerys’s heartbeat sang to Rhaella from within him, steady and beautiful, thrumming against her cheek, and she had to say it. “I love you, Ery.” There it was, his past name. The name of his childhood. The name he’d had when he had been her brother, and nothing more. She knew he would understand why she’d said it. She did not love him as a husband just yet, and perhaps she never would, but she was still his, and he, hers, in a way far deeper than carnal love. Even if Aerys never wanted her as he wanted his mistresses, even if Rhaella never thought of him as more than her brother, they were bonded through memories of sweetness and innocence and blood. Siblings, precious and inseparable, and she would always love him, always. Aerys wouldn’t feel her words in the same way Ery would. It had to be Ery she spoke to. She needed him to know.

The slow kiss on her forehead told her that he’d understood more than anything he could have said. But still, he said it. “And I you, Sister.”

It should have dried her tears, but somehow, they only fell more. Rhaella hid her face on her brother’s heart, let the salt soak his shirt. Aerys only held her tighter, lean arms strong and lovely and safe. Rhaella breathed him in. Rhaella, and Rhaegar. Rhaella, and Rhaegar, and Aerys. Maybe they could be a true family, one day, in the way that their grandparents had been. Maybe one day the ache in their hearts would die, die like Grandpapa and Grandmama and Uncle Duncan and Ser Duncan did. Maybe one day, she would stop seeing hellfire whenever she closed her eyes. Maybe. Maybe.

Rhaella laid between the two men of her life — the last ones, the only ones, the ones who had never forsaken her — and watched the world mourn around them. The candlelight was amber, amber like the fires that had changed her, and her son’s hair glowed gold in its warmth, and the blurry sight through her tears was murky, murky like…

The crown was a thick distorted mirror of silver. In its reflection, Rhaella saw her amethyst eyes, sad and dull and only sparkling just a bit. Like purple embers. Nowhere near as bright as Ellie’s eyes. They were the eyes of a Queen. The eyes of a dragon who had seen true fire and felt its breath.

The silver rose as the High Septon cradled it in his hands, placed it on her head. Rhaella humbly bowed, balancing on her knees. Aerys knelt beside her, somehow proud and somber all at once. _He still smells it,_ Rhaella knew. The darkness, the death. Father and Mother’s corpse. Father gone from sickness, and Mother, a broken heart. Rhaella knew what that felt like. They had given her a broken heart after the woods witch, and she had mourned them after Summerhall, in spite of them surviving it. Her eyes were dry, and her soul was numb. But she had Rhaegar, still. Rhaegar, and Aerys.

As the High Septon spoke to the crowd, Rhaella reached her pinky finger just slightly, pressed it against Aerys’s thumb. Out the corner of her eye, she saw him watch the movement. Slowly, just as slightly, his thumb moved, rose over her pinky, grazed her skin.

When they stood, it was him lifting her, not the other way around. Prince Rhaegar was placed in one arm as His Grace held the other. They faced the crowd, felt the anticipation, the oncoming glory, the worship.

“The king is dead,” said Ser Gerold, as he’d said three years before in the shadow of Summerhall, as he would say when Aerys left them, and it was Rhaegar’s turn. “Long live the king!”

“Long live the king!” The crowd hailed back. Their words were a chant, a spell, like what the woods witch cast upon them all. “Long live the king!”

“Long live the king!”

“ _Long live the king!_ ”

Aerys raised her arm along with his, and the crowd cheered, smiled for their new King and Queen, their Crown Prince. He looked down at her at the corner of his eye, gave her a little grin, and for a moment, he looked like the boy that had chased her through the Stormlands. For a breath, he could have been Ery. Then the ruby and onyx dragons circling his head glittered in the sunlight, and showed the truth of it. He was not Ery, not anymore, not ever again. He was King Aerys Targaryen, Second of his Name, and yet, as Rhaella gazed into his loving eyes, she thought she saw the faintest glint of mischief from his youth. She smiled at her brother, and wondered if it was truly different from the ones Ellie had given Ery.

They would never be Ellie and Ery again, in truth — too much had been changed, ruined, never to be undone —but maybe they could preserve the slightest sliver of those children’s essence within them. Maybe, if they tried hard enough, they could cradle what little of their innocence remained. Maybe. Maybe.

The cheers rang distant, the sunlight surrounding them as Rhaella gazed into her king’s crown, the black dragons with rubies for eyes. The red jewels glittered bright, but within their depths it was dark, endless, murky, murky like …

The blood came out in clumps. Black and crimson, fire and blood, and her womb churned and ripped and it was agony, but Rhaella barely felt it, compared to the warm red that filled her hands. Her child, flowing through her hands like a dark river. No. No.

She was still staring at her bloody hands when Joanna, Lorei Martell, and her other ladies-in-waiting found her. They screamed, shouted for aid, held her, but she only saw her hands, only felt the warmth.

Suddenly, Grand Maester Pycelle was before her, and she was in her bed, and he was talking, but her hands were still so red, and she was wearing a shift, and her bloody dress slumped in a crumbling pile. Rhaella held onto it, clutched it harder when a handmaiden reached for it. The silk had been lavender, like the eyes of the babe she had seen in her dreams, and the blood bloomed over the purple and over her pale hands, and had her hands always been red? Red like blood. Blood, there was only Rhaella and the blood. The blood of her child, the blood of the dragon, all before her on silk and flesh.

Blood had rushed to her ears as well. Swimming, dulling all sounds save for her heartbeat and breath. “Clean,” she thought she’d heard in the distance, and then, the sounds of cloth pooling through water. Drip. Drip. It neared her hands. Neared her to make the red hands white. To steal her child from her.

Rhaella snatched her hands away from them, heart pounding — how could they do this, how could they try to take her child from her? She wanted to ask them, but someone was screaming, screaming like mad, and she could not hear, or think, and her throat hurt as it never hurt before, but the screaming only grew louder, and _where was Aerys?_

Pycelle tried to hold her down, placating her with false words and gentleness, and she yanked herself away before they could claim her. “Get out!” she rasped, and her throat was on fire. “Leave! Leave us —” But there was no _us_ — not here, not in the land of the living. Only her. The babe was with _them_ , now, those who had forsaken her, the kings and queens that came before.

Rhaella held the lavender tighter to her belly. It was far flatter than it should be, but still soft and round, as if the babe was still in there. As if she wasn’t empty.

The room was empty, too, until footfalls graced her. She would know them anywhere. Surefooted, unlike the steps of servants or highborn that were not of Aegon’s seed.

Aerys kneeled beside their bed, eyes on the lavender gown.

“Is that them?” he asked, softly.

Rhaella nodded.

For the longest time, Aerys said nothing. Then he grabbed her hands, gently pulled them from the gown. Rhaella didn’t fight him. There was no fight left within her. Nothing.

Aerys clasped his palms onto hers, staring at the redness, like he meant to memorize each drop of their second child that had come to kiss her skin. His thumbs grazed her flesh, pressing, as if he wanted the blood on him, too, but it had already dried. He looked at this still white skin, and his eyes dimmed. They had lost some of the smiling light they’d once had, Rhaella saw. The light Ery had made. But he was king now, and though he could still conjure those easy, charming smiles, speak of inane, dreamy things that not even a dragon could make true, he spent most of his time struggling, arguing with Tywin, scowling and snapping at anyone and everyone. Not her and Rhaegar, though. Never them.

He was not snapping now, nor was he smiling. He was somber, and quiet, and studying, just like their son. Then one hand left hers, and the light splash of water sounded the silence.

The washcloth was soft on her skin, and the dripping of redness falling into the pail was like music. Aerys’s moving hands was the rhythm. He brushed and grazed, washing palm, wrist and finger. He was gentle, more gentle than he had ever been in life, and it was too much. The sob left her before she could catch it, but it was one little whimper, one sound of weakness. Everything after was silent — the salt pooling in her eyes, dripping into the pink water that slowly grew to red, the new home of their child. The tears made little splashes, little like the small breaths their babe would have soon taken had she not failed, and they kept coming, falling, falling, and she was so useless, unable to do the one thing a queen was meant to do, and yet, Aerys kept cleaning her. He cleaned until the water grew crimson. He cleaned until her tears died. He cleaned until it was done.

Droplets met the sheets, mimicking little clear stars. Rhaella looked at her hands. They were warm in a different way, now. Warm, and white.

“There,” Aerys said, brushing her hair from her sweaty brow.

“Brother.” Her voice was weak. So weak. “I’m … I’m sor —”

His fingers met her lips, shushing her. Then he reached for the bloodied lavender, brought her and the silk into his arms. She cradled his neck, let him carry her. He turned, stepped toward the hearth, set her down on the bearskin pallet. The fire was small, but amber, bright, glowed like Summerhall. Rhaella closed her eyes, brushed her fingers over the gown. She knew what he wanted her to do.

She clasped the silk on one end, Aerys on the other. Their Targaryen eyes strayed through each pattern of the stained fabric, each crimson swirl and wave, each last remnant of their child. Then they lifted it over the flames, and let it fall.

“Fire and blood, Sister,” said Aerys, voice husky and dead. “Our words. Our son or daughter returns to the flame, as all of Aegon’s seed did before them.”

The crimson and lavender burned black in the flames. Away, away forever.

“They walk with Mother and Father now,” said Aerys. “Grandmother, and Grandfather, our aunt and uncles. Aegon, and Rhaenys, and Visenya. As it should be.”

But it was not as it should be. It should be that their child was still alive within her, growing. It should be that they were born in truth, silver and breathing and beautiful. It should be that she knew whether her dead child had been a son or a daughter. But there was no face, nor silver, nor flesh — only clumps of blood that drenched hands and silk, and even that was gone, now.

But Aerys was right to do it. Clumps of blood could not be Rhaegar’s trusted second, or future bride. She could not hold on to it, despite the ache in her heart, in her womb. She must make another, one that grew, one that lived and breathed, one that burned like the dragon she was supposed to be.

“As it should be,” Rhaella repeated. As it should be. Yes. Maybe if she spoke the words aloud, it would become true. Maybe she would give Aerys another son to secure their line further, or a daughter that he could chase through the Stormlands the next time they visited. Could kings chase their daughters through rainy forests, unattended? Rhaella doubted it. She found that for all Aerys’s power, there were things he could not do, not in spite of his title, but because of it. Still. Maybe. Maybe.

Rhaella closed her eyes, leaned her head against Aerys’s shoulder. The fire danced and sighed, crackling, golden, brightening, and its light was murky, murky like ...

The lion was gold, not red. _Of course not,_ Rhaella thought, as Tywin Lannister left the king’s solar, far beyond her. The ruby eyes of the lion sewed upon his chest saw her, even in the distance. _He killed all of the red lions._ Drowned them, rendered them nothing more than a name, a symbol, a warning for those who dared to challenge House Lannister’s power.

“Tywin used water to destroy his enemies,” Aerys had told her once, jealousy sharp in the lilac eyes that had lost more sparks since his coronation. “But we are fire, Sister. Fire rules all.”

And it was fire in Aerys’s eyes when Rhaella walked through the solar’s doors. He sat at his desk, fingers clenching the dark wood, jaw clenched, teeth slightly bared, and though he was slim and wingless and pale, he looked every bit like an enraged dragon.

Rhaella gripped the silk of her dress, to stop herself from twisting her fingers. She hated when he was like this. His fury was something to behold, and though he hadn’t truly shouted at her as he shouted at the Council members, or their servants, or Tywin, in the times their arguments grew that heated, it still made something roil within her. That tinge in the back of her mind, burning like wildfire. She did not like it. She _did not like it,_ yet here she was, in the midst of that unease, because he had summoned her.

Rhaella stood at the desk, waited for him to give her leave to sit, or speak. But he said nothing, did nothing. Only seethed at his desk. Eyes growing more fiery by the second.

Rhaella drew near, just a bit. “Brother?” She hoped the name would calm him. He misliked when she called him by his title in private. “What’s wrong?”

“He questions and undermines everything I do,” Aerys hissed. “Everything.” He clenched his nails further into the wood. They were due for a trim soon, Rhaella noticed.

Aerys stood up, walked past her, to the window. A bit of red dripped from his fingers, from the way he’d dug them into the desk. The sunlight shined off his ruby necklace, and he looked past the horizon, at their city, at their world. His lilac eyes narrowed. “He forgets his place.” It was said darkly, soft through the quiet.

Rhaella held in a breath. He had ranted to her about Tywin many a time before this, but somehow, this felt different. Before, it had been mere annoyance, jealousy, always jealousy, but in a friendly, competitive way, and always with love underneath, always fondness, always. But there was no love for Tywin here, not now. Now, there was sheer resentment, as if he spoke of an enemy.

“What has he done?” she asked. Tywin was a hard, distant man, who could be monstrously cruel to those he deemed an enemy, but he was loyal to his realm, and as the Hand, he was quite competent; she would never call him a _good_ Hand — not after he repealed all of Grandfather’s laws that had made life better for the smallfolk — but he was dedicated, passionate about his work, had been a good partner for Aerys. And it was _he_ who birthed the chant that Lannisters never forget. Aerys and Tywin had been inseparable for years. Rhaella still remembered the smile on both of their faces when Aerys named Tywin his Hand. It was the only time she had seen Tywin’s lips quirk into anything past a flat line, and when he spoke his vows to their king, Rhaella knew he meant them. He would never admit it aloud, but Tywin loved Aerys as much as he could love anyone who was not a lion. He would never intentionally hurt his friend and king, forget their bond, turn on him … would he?

Aerys scowled at the window. “What hasn’t he done?” He let out a sharp sigh. “He believes himself to be king, not the king’s Hand. He is a lion, attempting to breathe fire. He _dares._ ” His scowl deepened. “He makes deals with merchants without consulting me. And when I set my own deal, as a king should, my choices are scorned.”

Joanna had told Rhaella that Tywin met with the merchants alone because Aerys had run off with one of his mistresses, but Rhaella dared not mention that. “Lord Tywin … means well, I believe.” Rhaella said. “He is … just of good stock, and that can make one cross boundaries they aren’t aware are there —”

“I am the king,” Aerys snapped. He still wasn’t looking at her. “The Dragon. One should see their boundary with me plain as day, especially one who sees that boundary every day he rises to serve.”

“Well …” Rhaella grasped at her words. She was never good at speaking on her feet, not like Lorei always could. She was so witty, so clever, and words came to her faster than the Dornish horses she loved so much. But Lorei had been raised to rule an entire kingdom, a Princess of Dorne, and Rhaella had only been a normal princess, the kind that was only meant to birth babes and look beautiful beside her husband at court. Not that Aerys had never asked for her advice on politics before — this was hardly her first time being in his confidence. But he had never been so angry before, or interrupted her, or not try to at least hear her.

“Lannisters can be arrogant sometimes, forgetful of their place. Tywin most of all.” Good, she settled with that. Something to lower Tywin, bring Aerys high. “And that makes him believe that he can handle things on his own. But Tywin is loyal to his king. He’s been loyal to him, ever since he was a cupbearer for Grandfather. He is our subject. Ours. He has always been so, and he will always be so. He knows that, Brother.”

Her words seemed to calm him just a bit. His jaw was still tight, though. “He wants to make his brother Master of Arms,” Aerys said. “Yet another lion. Does he mean to flood my Keep with them? Tygett, and any cubs his blushing bride gives him?”

Rhaella stiffened.

So. That was what this was truly about. The betrothal.

Tywin was to marry Joanna — or, as Aerys saw it, Tywin was stealing what Aerys wished was his. What he’d thought of as his for years, even after the witch had forced him to be with Rhaella, and it could not be. There was nothing Rhaella could do about the witch, and there was nothing she could do about Joanna’s wedding.

She could calm, though. Calm and soothe as much as she could. But he had to listen to her. “I understand your concern,” Rhaella said, though she did not. The Lannisters were their allies, and Tygett was a formidable warrior who would be an excellent Master of Arms. “But perhaps it would not be such a terrible thing, to compromise with Tywin. He’s of use to us, as he’s always been. He’s cunning. Charming in his way, yet intimidating. Traits like these could aid —”

“Cunning?” Aerys laughed, and it was not the laugh she knew. Unkind, and bitter, and aimed at her. “Charming? Are _you_ the one that’s marrying him, then?”

Rhaella could only blink. “What? I —”

“ _I_ am the charming one,” Aerys said. “They all flocked to _me_ like sheep and hens, as if I were not a beast born to hunt their kind. _My_ cunning has ran this kingdom since Father died.” He slit his eyes, and Rhaella could only blink at him again. His eyes … was he looking at _her_ that way? “You constantly defend him when I speak of him, Sister. As if you’re besotted.” He stalked toward her, and Rhaella was frozen, couldn’t understand, couldn’t fathom, couldn’t believe —

Suddenly he was on her, closer than they’d ever been without a caress or embrace or kiss. “Or perhaps you think he’d be a better king than me. Hmm?” His voice was a menacing whisper, eyes alight with something she could not fathom, and gods, had he always been so _tall?_ He towered over her like the walls of Summerhall had that night, so many years ago, and despite the frigidness radiating from him, Rhaella felt only heat, simmering from his flesh — or was it her own?

Glowing pink eyes glared down at her with cold, rising malice, growing as she remained silent, but she couldn’t speak. She gaped, a fish being yanked from water to air, and what was — why — _how_ could he —

A clenching weight snaked around her arm, crushing her, and she let out a yelp as the world rushed, and she crashed into his chest. The air was nothing but his breath, hot and moist like a dragon's, and her arm hurt, hurt so much, it felt like fingers was on her skin, his strong, gripping fingers, but that couldn't be it, because he said he would never hurt her, and he would protect her always, and _what was happening?_

 _“Answer me!”_ he screamed, and the roar rang in her ears. Rhaella flinched, but he yanked her back again. Sunset peered through the glass, shining directly in Aerys's eyes. In the golden glow, they looked like pink fire, rising and burning and coming for her.

The cry escaped her before she could even think to stop it.

Her arm hurt a little less then. A sudden loosening, a hesitation, then, a freeing. He snatched his hand from her as if she'd burned him, and perhaps she had. Her skin was on fire, more searing than Summerhall, and her muscles were jumping like prey hiding from a predator. No. Not jumping. Shaking.

She was shaking.

Aerys’s face softened, fiery sunlight gone from his eyes. “Gods,” he whispered, and he sounded just as confused as she felt, except there was shock laced with it, lying underneath something Rhaella never thought she would have heard taking her brother’s voice — _shame._ “I didn’t mean … Sister, I —”

“Is everything all right, Your Grace?” It was Ser Barristan.

Aerys looked between the both of them, silent and afraid, eyes wide in a way she had not seen since he was Ery. Confusion took Ser Barristan’s face, but he said nothing, waited for one of them to speak.

“I don’t feel well,” Rhaella blurted out. “Escort me to my chambers.”

Rhaella didn’t miss the glance Ser Barristan gave Aerys, to see if he was allowed to follow her order. It was only when Aerys gave a dismissing hand that Ser Barristan rescued her.

The old Kingsguard spoke to her in soft, gentle tones, like a father would to a daughter. Normally it would be a comfort, to be near him and his kind eyes and strong sword, but now she barely heard him. When they reached her chamber, she dismissed him with a smile that felt filled with splintered teeth, not the brightness she could usually give him with ease. She closed the door behind her before his reaching hand could find her shoulder. If it did, she would cling to him and never let go, and she couldn’t do that.

The bed met her with a soft embrace, and she buried her face in the pillows. Her arm hurt like blazes, and she was still shaking. Rhaella snapped her eyes shut, tried to halt the tears, but they did not heed her command. Why would they? She was no Queen to follow. After all this time, she was still the silly princess, crying because she’d been grabbed and yelled at a bit. But it wasn’t just _anyone_ who had grabbed her and yelled at her — it was Aerys. _Aerys,_ who had never looked at her with such mistrust, such _scorn,_ and his voice — gods, his _voice._ A rasping snarl, like nothing she had ever heard.

It was not a normal rage that had taken Aerys. It was dark, hateful, nearly ma —

Rhaella bit her lip. No. No, she could not think it, _would_ not. Tywin had always been one of the few people who could get under Aerys’s skin. That was all it was.

Rhaella’s arm ached. She undid her dress-robe, saw the long hand-shaped redness that would be purple by morning. A bruise. Her brother had given her a bruise.

Rhaella threw the dress-robe on the floor, put on her sleeping shift. This was only a nightmare, surely. She would wake up soon. Her brother would not do this to her. Never. Never. Yet the blotch on her skin was real, and so was the pain, and her tears, and the burning tinge in the back of her mind. She laid back on the pillow, quiet sobs her only lullaby.

“Sister.” It was whispered through the distance. “Sister, wake up.”

Rhaella opened her eyes. Hazing moonlight met her gaze. Moonlight, and lilac eyes, pretty and unburning.

Rhaella flinched, pulled away, and she had never seen Aerys look more hurt. He made to reach for her, then thought better of it. “You fear me now.” It was not a question. Rhaella sat up, rested her back on the headboard, cradled her aching arm, didn’t look at him.

A hitched breath sounded on the other side of the bed from where he knelt. “I don’t blame you,” he said, “I was … gods, I don’t know what came over me. It’s … it’s bloody Tywin. He makes me … you know what he does to me.”

Rhaella nodded. Yes, she did. Aerys had always had the dragon’s temperament, and Tywin Lannister could always stoke those fires.

“I get so angry sometimes,” said Aerys. “I always have. You know that.”

Always, yes. Always. But never at her.

“It’s no excuse,” said Aerys. “You’re my sister. My queen. I should not … gods, Rhaella …”

Rhaella clenched her arm, closed her teary eyes.

“Ellie.” And there it was, the name. Her weakness. “Look at me. Please.”

Rhaella opened her eyes, turned her head. She had never seen him so broken, not even at Summerhall. His eyes had no spark, but glowed with unshed tears, and they looked at her in a way that only Ery could. He inched a bit closer to her. She didn’t pull away, but she didn’t go to him, either.

His eyes found her arm that gleamed purple in the moonlight. “Does it hurt still?”

Rhaella broke their gaze then, said nothing.

The shame took his face. “Forgive me,” he pleaded. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I will never hurt you again. I promised to protect you, and I meant it. It won’t happen again. I swear it. I swear it.”

Rhaella bit her lip, took all of her strength to stop her sobs. She had given him a promise, too — to never fear him. She had sworn. She had.

“Do you believe me?” Aerys asked. He drew closer to her, placed a hesitant hand on her cheek. “Tell me you believe me.”

“I believe you,” she said. The tinge in her head burned hotter.

Relief lit through his eyes. His thumb stroked her cheek. “And do you fear me, still?”

His touch was soft, soft as she was used to, and it sent soothing waves through her. Rhaella closed her eyes. Maybe Aerys was right. Maybe this was only a one time slip, an unleashing of the dragon. Maybe, for her, he would chain that dragon, never let it burn her again. Maybe.

Rhaella opened her eyes, met her brother’s gaze, leaned into his touch.

“No,” she said, and when he smiled at her, truly smiled, and gave her arm feathery kisses, she found that her words were not an entire lie.

Aerys had lied, though. She knew it in the weeks that led to Joanna Lannister’s wedding, felt that tinge in her mind burning as he made their servants cower, as the scowl on his face deepened with each Council meeting with the Hand, as he grew distant from her. When he did speak to her, it was short and unfamiliar, not cruel, but not the tone he’d used to reserve for her. He did not hurt her, though. Of that he remained true.

Still, the tension boiling around him as Tywin placed his cloak over Joanna nearly incinerated them both. He cheered when the crowd cheered, smiled when it was time to smile, but Rhaella could see the rage in his eyes. The rage that had been there for longer than she could admit.

At the feast, he seethed as the lions did their dance, lighting the hall with their golden beauty. The red wine in his onyx chalice was Lannister crimson, and his nails scratched the blackness like daggers screeching across glass. They were even longer than they’d been since he’d grabbed her, far longer than he’d ever allow them to grow. Soon his hands would look more like a woman’s, an enraged woman who longed to tear the throat of any who betrayed her.

Tonight, that traitor had been Joanna. Or perhaps Tywin. Rhaella didn’t know anymore. All she knew was that he had lied. But she hadn’t truly known it until he let his wine cup overflow again and again, drank it like it was fire, and he was a ravenous dragon, let it simmer in his belly like embers of bitterness. Did not truly know it until he spoke.

“The new Lady Lannister looks quite beautiful, doesn’t she?” he asked everyone and no one. His eyes fell to Joanna’s — hers, and only hers. “A shame my ancestors banned the Right to the First Night.” He’d said it with a smirk on his face. It was not the smirk Rhaella had so loved, once, eons ago. It was dark, and stretched, and hideous, and his eyes were a deranged shade of pink, close to the shade that filled him when he would visit her to fill her with child, but with none of the charm or passion. Brighter, wilder. _Lust._

The court laughed. They laughed, and laughed, all of them, the court, the city, the world, everyone, anyone, save for Rhaella and Joanna and Tywin. Tywin stared daggers at his king, silent and seething, neat short nails clenching his own wine cup, but all Rhaella saw was Joanna, the sickening mix of disgust and horror that had taken her face. _She is my mirror,_ Rhaella realized, golden fear reflecting her silver, and she was going to vomit.

“Your Grace,” Rhaella murmured. “May I be excused? I fear this food, delicious as it is, does not agree with me.”

Aerys gave her a quick, dismissive look, like she was a stranger he had no time for. He waved a hand. “Of course,” he said, glancing at her puffy arms and belly, soft and thick from Rhaegar’s birth and the child they’d lost. “You needn’t more food anyhow, I’d say.” He laughed, cruel and drunk and _wrong_.

Rhaella said nothing, could say nothing. She simply stood, and shook, and let herself be escorted to her chambers. She did not sleep at all, simply stared at the moon beaming through her window, stared, stared, and when the clumps of blood flowed out of her, she couldn’t bring herself to even be surprised.

Aerys did not visit her immediately, as he had with the first lost one. She had been resting for nearly a fortnight when he finally came to her, resting on the lounge on her balcony that oversaw the gardens.

“It is no large matter,” he said, voice somehow soft and sharp all at once. He stood over her lounge, did not reach for her. “Mother suffered many miscarriages as well, yet she still gave Father two healthy hatchlings. Our time will come again. Don’t fret.”

Rhaella give him a silent nod. It did not matter. He wasn’t even looking at her. His eyes searched the garden, seeing Joanna Lannister sit amongst the flowers with Lady Genna, her cousin and new good-sister. Her golden hair blended with the daffodils around her, glowing like a halo. No. A crown.

“Lannisters are infamous for their fertility,” Aerys muttered, that hideous smirk returning to his face. “More rabbits than lions. It seems Tywin will be filling my Keep with cubs, after all.” That smirk stayed on his face as he watched Joanna, eyes following every single movement, that pinkness in his eyes glazing over his stare, and —

Gods.

It was true.

The rumors were true.

The bedding. And Aerys had done it.

The touching.

Joanna could barely look at her since their wedding, was a far too obedient lady-in-waiting, when she had been so playfully defiant before. Rhaella had thought it was because of Aerys’s drunken jest, but it wasn’t a jest, Aerys _meant_ it — gods, he’d meant every word, and he had done what he could get away with at the bedding, taken liberties, as the whisperers said when they thought she wasn’t listening, but he couldn’t have everything he wanted then, because there were too many witnesses, but the wedding was over, now, and eventually, Tywin would let his guard down, and Aerys would find Joanna, and —

_And —_

_He wouldn’t,_ she thought, as she watched him leer at Joanna. But she never thought he would give her a bruise, or scream at her, or demean her, either. And she was his blood, the mother of his child, his fellow dragon in flight, and yet, he had done that to her. Joanna was something else entirely. She was the woman who’d stirred his heart for years and years, but he had been deprived of her, never been allowed to have her, and now she was _Tywin’s_ , and when it came to putting Tywin in his place, Aerys was ma —

No.

She still couldn’t think it. Couldn’t speak it into existence. Aerys was sane, healthy, good. But the vendetta Aerys had against Tywin was something _like_ madness. Maybe, if part of Tywin was gone, that madness would leave Aerys, and he would return to himself. Maybe. Maybe.

But still, if there was even a sliver of likelihood that Aerys could ... the _slightest_ chance that he would ever —

 _It will not happen,_ thought Queen Rhaella Targaryen. The people of Westeros were her subjects as much as they were Aerys’s, her ladies-in-waiting even more so. They swore to serve her, and as the blood of Aegon, she must uphold the ancient oath given from her ancestors to Joanna’s. The oath to protect.

With watery eyes Rhaella watched her friend, her strong, beautiful, doomed friend that sat oblivious in the gardens, and knew what she must do.

“What have you done?” Aerys snapped at her.

Rhaella sat in her chair, looked up at him. He towered over her, as he had done for too long, now, his eyes seething and looking at her with such hatred that Rhaella was lost between fleeing and falling on her knees to beg his forgiveness. She did neither, though. She held her hands in her lap, fought every impulse to twist her fingers in nervousness, because she could show no weakness, now. Show no fear, and not because of the promise she had given him, all those eons ago, but because of what she’d promised _herself_ , when the High Septon set that crown upon her head.

To be a good queen.

“What I had to,” she told him. And she had to do it. She had to. Rhaella thought of the hurt and rage in Joanna’s emerald eyes as the queen dismissed her from her service, exiled her for her so-called betrayal, the betrayal that only a lady-in-waiting could do to her queen — attempting to seduce the king. _I called her a whore,_ Rhaella thought, guilt taking her, but she had to be as convincing as possible. She had done it for Joanna. And she had done it for Aerys, too. He’d had many women, but never an unwilling one. If he went down that path, there was no going back for any of them, especially the realm. If Aerys touched a single hair on Joanna’s head, Tywin would —

Rhaella shook the thoughts away. It was done now, had to be done, and she regretted nothing. Nothing.

“What you _had_ to?” Aerys’s scowl deepened. “You are a consort, nothing more. You do _nothing_ that I haven’t ordered.”

“She was my lady,” Rhaella’s voice wavered only slightly. She gripped her fingers, did not twist them. “Mine.” _Not yours. Never yours._ “Whether she stayed in my service was my decision, mine alone. It was my right as queen.”

“You _have_ no rights!” Aerys screamed. “Are you as deaf as you are fat?”

She gripped her puffy arms before she could stop herself, and he laughed at her. Gods, his laugh was so different now. So ugly, so cruel. _It had been pretty, once,_ Rhaella remembered. _And he had a special one he’d sing only for me._

Aerys’s laugh stopped as his face lit with knowing. “Oh,” he said, “I see, now. Does it sadden you, sweet sister? To see me strive for something greater? More beautiful?” He shook his head mockingly, and he gave her a grin that was almost like his old one. “Jealousy is unbecoming on you.” He drew closer. Rhaella did not move from her chair. “Is that why you did it? To keep me from her?”

Rhaella clutched the skirts around her legs. She stood, and though she was far smaller than him, would always be small, he did not tower over her, not in that moment. She met his lilac gaze with one that was unyielding.

“To keep her from _you_ ,” she said, voice dark and soft and hateful.

For half a breath, Aerys’s eyes widened at her challenge. Then they brightened, brightened like they had that day in his solar but even more intense, even more enraged, and the slap met her cheek just a breath before she’d expected it. The world spun as she crashed unto the floor, hands breaking her fall, her wrist crunching from her weight. Her scalp twisted as Aerys yanked her by her hair, met eyes with her once again, and she _saw_ them, truly saw them, knew what was in them now, that unfamiliar thing that she’d recognized all along, but had let denial save her. Dragonfire.

No.

Hellfire.

“You’re pathetic,” he sneered at her. There was no guilt in his face, no shock, no shame, as there was the first time he’d laid hands on her. Now, there was only rage.

Rhaella smiled through her bleeding mouth. “And you will never have her,” she murmured, laughing — or was she crying?

The next blow met her belly, not that it mattered — if there was a child in there, it was doomed anyway — but she barely felt it. The room melted around them in salt, and her face ran wet with tears and blood, and it was silver and red and mixed into pink, pink like Ery’s pretty eyes, and the world was murky, murky like …

Her daughter’s eyes were dull.

Amethyst, just like Rhaella’s, but dull. Almost as dull as Rhaella’s eyes were now. They stared into nothing, lifeless and beautiful and dead, and Rhaella couldn’t bring herself to close them. Not yet. Not while she was in her brother’s arms.

Rhaegar held his little sister gently, indigo eyes staring at her knowingly, in a way no boy of eight should be able to. _It’s the smoke of Summerhall within him,_ Rhaella knew. _He was born from death. He knows it more than any of us._

“She’s pretty,” he said.

“She is,” Rhaella agreed, seeing the heads of both of her children, whose locks glinted the same shade of silver-gold in the candlelight.

Rhaegar looked at his mother then, eyes even more somber than they usually were. “I’m sorry she didn’t survive, Mother,” he told her, “And I wish that she did.”

 _Sweet boy._ Rhaella gave him a sad smile. “As do I, my Dragon.”

Rhaegar’s full lips were pressed tightly. That meant he was thinking. “When I am king,” he said, “I will invest in the Citadel, to ensure they advance their medical research. Perhaps then, this will happen less often to women.”

Rhaella’s heart skipped a beat at the thought of her son, no longer a boy, but a man, dragon crown on his head, standing over them all, protecting them. Her. _The king is dead,_ Ser Gerold would say. _Long live the king._ The sweetest music.

“That is a beautiful thought, my love,” she said. “I would like to see it.” A yawn escaped her.

“You should rest,” Rhaegar said.

“As should young princes,” said Rhaella. “Go to your room, and sleep. I shall be here when the morning comes.” Her daughter wouldn’t, though. She would be taken away as soon as Rhaella closed her eyes.

Rhaegar considered that. Then he stood up, placed his sister in the bassinette the Tyrells have gifted them — a gift of good will, because she had carried the child full term, so surely it would live, as Rhaegar had. _They put too much faith in their queen_ , Rhaella thought, numbly. She couldn’t feel her agony in truth — not as long as Rhaegar was here.

After Rhaegar left his sister, he walked over to Rhaella’s lounge, sat and lay his long legs across it. “I will sleep here,” he said.

Rhaella frowned, despite her warming heart. “Rhaegar —”

“I would like to stay, Mother.” It was soft, but determined.

So Rhaella let him stay. She watched as he relaxed on her lounge, closed his eyes, silver locks settling on his forehead. She painted the picture in her head, memorized it, let it burn in her mind for all eternity, closed her eyes.

When she opened them, Rhaegar was gone, and Aerys was kneeling over the bassinette.

Any other time, Rhaella’s skin would grow hot, and her body would jump into alertness, like a sheep among dragons. But somehow, there was nothing within her now. No fear, no hate. Only exhaustion, a weary soul. She sat up, waited for him to speak.

Aerys dipped his head into the bassinette, touched his nose with their daughter’s. His hands reached for her face to cup her little cheeks, and when he did, his face twisted with pain, but he fought it. _He’s felt how cold she is._ The blood of the dragon should never be so frigid, and yet, there their daughter was, colder than the longest winter.

Aerys closed his eyes, leaned his forehead against their hatchling’s. Then he pulled away, traced a long nail against the soft cloth of her newborn gown.

“She’ll be called Shaena,” said Aerys. “For Mother.”

Rhaella nodded, dully. A dead woman’s name for a dead babe. Fitting.

“Our time will come,” he murmured.

Rhaella nodded again, looked away. Out the corner of her eye, she saw his hand reach for her’s — for half a breath, an eternity, never — but then, nothing. Good. He had never asked forgiveness for what he had done the day she’d dismissed Joanna, and only touched her when it was time for them to do their duty to the realm. _I would have it remain that way._

He must’ve sensed her rejection, because his stance turned harsh. “We’ll try again in three fortnights. That’s the usual time, is it not? You should remember, after all these times.”

Somehow, the cruelty still stung, even after all this time. And in six weeks, she would have do this all over again. “Yes,” she said.

He stood there for the longest time, out the corner of her eye. Or perhaps it had only been a breath. But it felt like eons that Aerys’s shadow loomed over hers, trapped her, reminded her. Then he turned his back, rustle of his robes sighing through her.

 _The king is dead,_ she heard Ser Gerold say as she watched him leave her and their dead daughter. _Long live the king._

Daeron had been a gift and a curse.

A gift because he rose from her loins breathing as Rhaegar had, strong and glorious and _alive,_ and the months he’d been with them were nothing but sheer joy. Rhaegar was most curious about his new brother, and spent most of his free time reading to him. It was a precious thing, to watch them together, when Rhaella wasn’t holding Daeron close, singing the songs that Grandmama used to sing to her, before the witch.

Daeron hadn’t only brought happiness to his mother and brother. He’d been something even more to his father. Aerys adored Daeron, smiled as he grew — not the cruel one, the older one, the one close to the smile she had loved once — showered him in gifts, spent more time in the nursery than he did with his mistresses.

Daeron loved him, as well. Aerys was the one whom Daeron gifted his very first smile to, spittle bubbling on his lips as he giggled, and that had brought Aerys’s true smile out, the one from so long ago, _Ery’s_ smile — and gods, that had been the end of it. Aerys’s madness was nearly cured. He’d been kinder to her, and didn’t even quarrel with Tywin as often.

But then a night’s chill wasted Daeron away, took him, and so began the curse. All the madness their second son had kept away returned with a vengeance, and it was Rhaella who suffered.

Rhaella who was doomed.

Because nine months ago, Aerys had put another child in her to replace Daeron, and that child had been born dead.

Rhaella could feel it as soon as he left her body with no struggle, filled the room with silent cries. She felt the cold as he was placed in his hands, heard the condolences, saw the sorrowed faces. And it had been a he, or at least, she thought it was. Whenever she tried to picture the new child, all she saw was Daeron. Daeron, and his eyes that were just as indigo as Rhaegar’s and Grandfather’s. Daeron, and his silver-gold hair that was bone-straight, just like Mother’s. Daeron, and his button nose that had once belonged to Aunt Rhaelle. Daeron, and the smile that had returned her brother to her for half a year. _My child deserves better than this,_ she told herself. _He deserves to be remembered, as I remember Daeron, and Shaena, and all the lost ones before them._ But she could not hide from the truth. She was numb to the dead child they’d placed in her arms. All she could think of now, was Aerys, and what he would do.

It had been two days since their child’s death, and the king had not come to see her, name the child as he had their other children. Nor did he call for a vigil, as always had — just ordered him burned in private, with no one to see but the cremators. Rhaella knew nothing, could do nothing but sit in her sickbed, and wait.

On the seventh day, he summoned her.

Rhaella stood before the solar doors. She had not been inside them since he had grabbed her, all those lifetimes ago. She ignored the burning tinge in her mind, walked in.

He was waiting for her at the window. Moonlight glowed over his pale skin, his long silver hair. “Sister,” he said.

Rhaella curtseyed, ignored the sting between her legs. “Your Grace.”

“I’m told you’ve healed.”

“Well enough, Your Grace.”

“And your son?” he asked. “Did you spend enough time with him before his cremation?”

 _Her_ son? Rhaella fought back a frown. “I did, Your Grace.”

“Good,” he said, still not looking at her. He placed his arms behind his back. “I’ve been speaking with the gods.”

Rhaella did frown at that. Aerys had never been pious — in fact, he always walked the line between arrogance and blasphemy. “Targaryens answer to neither gods nor men,” he had loved to tell her in the ancient days when they’d still had a place in each other’s heart, and they told each other nearly everything.

“Oh?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “I asked that they forgive my arrogance. For you see, Sister, they’ve been punishing me for it. And I’ve known that for some time, but I misunderstood the punishment. I thought it was that, with each swell of your belly, the gods gave me hope that I would be a father again, secure my line, or perhaps create a wife for Rhaegar, my Promised Prince. And with each birth, they snatched it away.” He tilted his head, watching something. “But that wasn’t the punishment. For not knowing my place in the universe, for thinking myself above the gods’ law …” Aerys turned his head, looked at her, gaze glowing. “I was given a whore of a wife.”

Silence took the room.

Rhaella could say nothing, do nothing, only look into those eyes, only feel her veins ice over.

“... Pardons?”

The smile Aerys gave her was a mix of amusement and hatred. “None of your children are mine,” he said, “Save for Rhaegar. They would have survived otherwise. The gods will not abide bastards in the royal bloodline. You should know that from your Blackfyre Rebellion lessons.”

“I …” She couldn’t even find the strength to deny it — how could she, when she was still trying to process it? “I didn’t … I would never ...”

“Oh,” Aerys chuckled. “Is this the part where you declare your undying love for me? Please. I saw you eying Steffon a few weeks ago, while you were carrying my supposed child.”

Rhaella bit back the vomit that was surfacing. She had been looking at their cousin Steffon, yes — endearing his big Baratheon smile, dark purple eyes and even darker hair, his strong arms, his _kindness,_ the fact that he would have been a good husband to her, as he was to Cassana. She had thought of him like that, yes, for half a breath, for one moment of fantasy, but she had never —

“Steffon and I never —”

“I know you haven’t,” Aerys snapped. “Steffon is loyal to me. But you were beautiful once, and even now a Queen, the blood of the dragon. There are many who would have you. Servants, noblemen grasping for power. But it’s no matter. I’ll find them.” Aerys smiled, wide and slow. “After I deal with you.”

For a breath, a single breath, time did not exist. Her heart stopped, her breath stilled, and there was nothing. Nothing but those pink eyes, sparkling.

Rhaella took in a deep breath.

Then she ran.

She ran out the doors, down the hall, through the wing. She ran through her racing heart, her burning, bleeding legs, her aching womb. She ran as she did in the Stormlands, surrounded by mist and wet and green, the cool wisps, the faint kisses, trees and glades and dark waters. But then it had only been a forest to evade, only two boys to outrun. Then, it had only been a game, and whether she was found or clever enough to stay lost, she always won, because Ery was there to chase her.

Now, it was not trees she ran past, but tall stone walls, endless, unmoving, trapping. Now, it was the entire world that chased her, the nobles, the smallfolk, the guards, the Gold Cloaks, any and everyone who’d sworn to obey the king and destroy treasonists.

Now, it was not Ery that caught her, but Ser Gerold.

She was in his arms before she could process that she’d crashed into him. The White Bull was big and strong, and his arms had carried Ellie all the time, bounced her on his knee and threw her over his shoulders to make her laugh. _Now,_ though — _now,_ he was dragging her, a wall that took her, held her, led her to doom.

“No,” she said as he led her, as the other Kingsguard surrounded them. “Please. I didn’t, _I didn’t,_ you must believe me. They’re all his. All of them. I’ve only been with him. No one else. No one else.” She gripped his arm, just as Ellie did, whenever he would put her on his shoulders. _"Please."_

Ser Gerold’s face twisted in pain, but he did not budge. “I am sorry, Your Grace.”

Her heart shattered, wept, died, but she barely felt it. “No.” She pulled against his arms, but it was futile. Aerys was going to kill her. She was going to die.

The scream was like nothing she’d ever conjured before in any of the lives she’d lived — not Ellie’s, or Rhaella’s, or the thing she had become now, the wraith that was weak, numb and soulless. It was a screech, a cry, a roar, and somewhere in the depths of her mind, she thought it was the sound of a dragon. Her tears burned like fire down her face, at the Kingsguard’s betrayal, at herself, at Father, and Grandfather, and the witch. She screamed, and screamed, and _screamed,_ but no one would help her. No one would save her. No one. _No one,_ and then, she heard it, in her ears, in her memories, in Ellie and Rhaella’s heart.

_It seems we’ve caught you, Sister._

A shiver of pain ran through her from the depths of her womb; she groaned, and darkness swarmed her, tendrils poking through her vision as fog misted in her sight, growing, and the world was murky, murky like …

Rainwater dripped on the dark stone windowsill, splashed on her nose.

Rhaella gasped, blinked. Darkness met her, but it was different from the tendrils. And the Kingsguard weren’t there, grabbing her. Grabbing her like they had so many times before. Betraying her for all time.

Rhaella let out a quivering sigh. She had been dreaming again. Daydreaming. That was all she could do in her cell. Sit, and sleep, and breathe dank air. She didn’t know how long it’d been. Months, breaths, eons — it did not matter. All she knew was that she wasn’t dead, and she must remain faithful.

“I couldn't kill you,” Aerys had told her. “Not without indisputable proof. And even with that, it would be kinslaying. And I need another Dragon to lay with, otherwise my bloodline would be muddied. No. No, you must live. When you’re healed, I’ll put a child in you, one that will be mine, as no man can find you here. If it lives, your adultery will be proven, but I’ll have a trueborn heir. If it dies, your faithfulness will be proven.”

It was madness. Pure madness, but he had done it, exactly as he’d said he would. In the time she’d been captured, she had miscarried once, proof that she had been a faithful wife, if not barren, but that hadn’t been enough for him to free her. He had moved her from the dungeons to a cell for highborn prisoners. There was a soft bed, and a window to let in sunlight, but little else.

 _It’s just as well,_ she thought. Part of her liked being imprisoned. At least, in the cell, there was peace when the silence did not consume her, make her dream of her life, make her wonder how it all went wrong, make her wonder what she had done to deserve this. But no. It was still better than before. When her cell was not cruel, it was a safe haven. All she needed was Rhaegar in her arms, her sweet little boy, and she would be content.

The doorknob turned. Rhaella jumped. It wasn’t time for servants to bring food or draw a bath for her. Around this time, all she was supposed to hear was her own breath. Unless — Rhaegar?

It was not Rhaegar. “Sister.”

Rhaella brought her hands to her knees, didn’t look at him.

Aerys said nothing, let out a sad breath. He stepped closer. “I’ve good news,” he said. “You’ve been released.”

Rhaella looked up at him then. His eyes were soft as they watched her, soft in a way they hadn’t been for years, but his nails were still longer than they should be, and there was something manic in his stance. “Free?”

Aerys nodded. “I discovered the truth of it,” he told her. “It wasn’t your fault that our children kept dying, nor was it mine. It was one of my mistresses’.”

Rhaella blinked. Mad. He was still mad. “One of your —”

“She confessed to it,” he said. “Her, and her family. They were poisoning you, Sister.” His eyes lit with flame then, but Rhaella could tell it wasn’t aimed at her. “Poisoning our children. All for jealousy, and ambition. But they’re gone now. All of them.”

Gone. For half a breath, Rhaella dared to wonder what had been done to them before they were _gone_ , but she killed the thought before it could ruin her further.

Aerys kept going. “The next child we have will be alive and healthy and long-lived, just like our Promised Prince. It was the poison, Rhaella. Without that, we will be fruitful.”

Rhaella let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. Poison. Gods, could it be? Could it be that she had not killed all of her sweet babes with her weakness? Or was it only Aerys’s madness, filling her, tainting her, manipulating her denial, her pain, her mourning? Or was it true? Could it be?

Could it be?

Aerys kneeled before her. “You’re a good wife, Rhaella,” he said. “A good woman. Far more than what I deserve. I’ve … gods, I’ve been so cruel, and none of it has ever been your fault. Forgive me.”

“You asked for forgiveness before,” she said without thinking. Gods, she was mad too. But it was too late to stop. “And not long after, you hurt me again, and you never apologized. Never tried to atone.”

Aerys did look ashamed then. “You’re right. You’ve always been right, Rhaella. I was driven mad. By Summerhall, by Tywin, by all of our children. But I understand, now. I understand what matters. And it’s you, Ellie.”

 _Ellie._ Rhaella closed her eyes, refused to let the tears fall, fill her world with salt and weakness. _Dragons breathe fire, not salt,_ Joanna had told her, years before Rhaella had betrayed her, saved her. But Rhaella was no dragon.

“Please,” Aerys said. “Please. Another chance, I beg you. I’ve set all of my mistress aside. From this day forth, I am yours and yours alone. Now and always, Ellie. Just like I promised you that day we went swimming with Steffon.”

She looked at him then. “You remember that?”

Aerys cupped the space between her neck and ear. It wasn’t … unpleasant. “I had forgotten how I was back then. How I gently treated you. Never again.” He reached out his hand, offered himself to her.

Rhaella met his eyes, saw him. Aerys stared back at her, expression kind. It was … strange, on his face. Wrong, somehow. And yet …

_I’ll always protect you, Ellie._

Rhaella took his hand. His long nails scraped her skin, but his palm was warm, warm like dragon’s breath, and when he smiled, she could almost pretend that they were in the Stormlands again, running through mist, and wet, and green. Laughing under a cradling glade, under grey, loving, rainy skies. Almost.

Aerys pulled her up, and she let him guide her out of the door. His grip on her hand was strong, but gentle, as gentle as it used to be. _Maybe he truly meant it,_ she told herself, as the tinge burned in the depths of her mind, far, far in the shadows, with Summerhall and clumps of blood and the blaze of fiery pink eyes. Maybe this time, it would be different. Maybe things could return as they were.

Maybe.

Maybe.

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, this started out as a pure fluffy kid!fic, but, considering the fact that we all know what happens with Aerys and Rhaella, I thought it was disingenuous. Any canon fic with these two is going to be depressing, because even if it ends on a happy note, you _know_ what’s going to happen eventually. So, after hearing that chillyravenart likes angst, I came up with this. I really hope you enjoyed it, Raven!


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